ADAB

I’ve been thinking about the meaning of ‘adab’. It is an Arabic word with no exact equivalent in English and has to do with kindness and good manners expressed with courtesy and refinement. It is similar to what we used to call ‘grace’ or ‘class.’ It’s what makes us civilized. I suppose this is why 16^th Century French Jesuits went to the trouble of composing 110 Rules of Civility & Decent Behavior in Company and Conversation, and why, when George Washington was a schoolboy, he transcribed these rules as part of a hand-writing exercise. Penmanship was taught back then and so were manners.

John Henry Newman wrote that a true gentleman’s concern is in “merely removing the obstacles which hinder the free and unembarrassed action of those about him.” Emily Post said that possessing good manners means having “a sensitive awareness of the feelings of others”, and Ann Landers defined class as “being considerate of others.” The First of the Rules of Civility proclaims that “every action done in company ought to be with some sign of respect to those that are present.” I don’t know about you but I’m beginning to see a pattern here. Good manners are the practical expression of loving-kindness. They reflect the charity which Holy Scripture says is patient and kind, and is not boastful, proud, self-seeking, or rude. We are told that Christians are to be kindly affectionate one with another with brotherly love, and when we visit each other’s homes for meals we should do so with thankfulness, eschewing all rudeness. ‘Adab’ at its root is a term related to mealtime. It comes from a culture in which dining together is still seen as an act of communion, and everyone eats with the right hand of fellowship, and dips in a common dish.

To live together as one nation is to dip in a common dish. It requires courtesy, thoughtfulness, neighborliness, good will, a desire for fairness, and the old-fashioned virtues of prudence, courage, temperance, and justice. Above all it takes charity and a preference for getting along. In other words we cannot be civilized unless we’re civil. 

In his essay: The Spirit of Appomattox Court House, historian Douglas Brinkley wrote that “while the scars of the monstrous Civil War still remain, the wounds have closed since 1865, in large part, because of the civility of Grant and Lee.” We need civility. No Country is so surely established or has a Constitution so well devised that it can long endure when good manners are abandoned, for then we have forsaken the very virtues required in self-governance. We need grace – the inner and outer adab of charity – if we’re to have any hope of living in peace.

O HIDDEN …

I’m reading Coriolanus for Lent. I’m meditating on the text. It is well worth while. T. S. Eliot thought very highly of the play, and, as he often did, took the quite contrarian view that it was, together with Antony and Cleopatra, Shakespeare’s “most assured artistic success.” (The Sacred Wood, 1919) I’ll let the scholars have that debate.

Although he makes reference to the character, Coriolanus, near the end of The Waste Land, Eliot’s extended treatment of the play’s central themes is found in his unfinished collection begun in1931 entitled Coriolan.  It was written at a time when fascism was spreading in Europe and society was sagging at the knees at home. The American philosopher Russell Kirk said of the poem: “It was an appeal to true principles of public order, rooted in religion and in historical consciousness, against ideology, against the cult of personality, against the indifference or irresponsibility of the crowd, against the ‘Servile State’ described by Hilaire Belloc, and against captivity to a moment in time.” (Eliot and His Age, 1971)

There was much in Eliot’s day to cause him to reflect on Shakespeare’s treatment of the story of the ancient Roman General. The rise of Nationalism full of bold promises by great men on horseback and the marriage of technology and empire led the poet to inquire into the deeper sources of authority and meaning. He sought to reflect upon the love that animates community and makes life possible. It seems to me that making room for such reflection is one of the reasons the church observes penitential seasons. We need simply to stand still every now and then and let the parade of pomp and circumstances pass us by, and in that simplicity, to look, and to listen.

 O hidden under the dove's wing, hidden in the turtle's breast,

Under the palm tree at noon, under the running water
At the still point of the turning world. O hidden.

 Have a lovely Lent.

HANK

On New Year’s Day, 1953, my mother and father were pulling the car into the driveway of the home of my maternal grandparents in Newton Heights, New Brunswick, when my grandfather, our pépère, came quickly out of the back door to greet them. They could tell by his expression that something truly momentous had occurred. As soon as Dad began to roll down the car window, Pépère, with his thick French accent told them, “Hank Williams died today.” That was huge news back then especially in our home with our great love for what was then called ‘Country and Western’ music. We came by it honestly. My mother’s uncles and aunts each played numerous instruments, most notably fiddle, accordion, and guitar. They performed at barn dances and County Fairs throughout Southeastern New Brunswick in the 1930’s, 40’s and early 50’s. My mother remembered how as a little girl she would listen to her aunts play fiddle and accompany a young singer/songwriter named Hank Snow who would come by the house to play music before heading over to do his show on Moncton’s CKCW radio.

Mum’s Uncle Arthur not only performed songs but wrote them as well. She recalled helping him with a song he was writing during the Second World War called ‘I’ll Miss You When You’re Gone.’

When grey skies are as blue

As when I first met you
And city lights are shining once again …

I enjoy writing lyrics. It’s my principle hobby. I play the guitar but am not a musician and would much rather listen to someone play and sing my songs than perform them. I suppose the great age of lyric writing was during the Big Band era with singers like Sinatra ready to give them voice. That was also the age of Musicals. Even the Beatles did a cover version of Meredith Wilson’s ‘Til There Was You’ from The Music Man (my favorite musical) because they just couldn’t resist a great song.

Getting back to 1953 and the death of Hank Williams, I’ve always had a hard time grasping that he was only twenty-nine years old when he died. He wrote so much in such a short time it’s no wonder he was called ‘The Hillbilly Shakespeare.’

Did you ever see a robin weep when leaves begin to die?

That means he’s lost the will to live
I’m so lonesome I could cry

My own songwriting has surprised me over the years. As a teenager I listened mostly to the Rock and Pop music of the day tuning in to the radio’s top 40. Then disco came along and I turned off the radio and haven’t listened to popular music since. As an adult I’ve been a devotee of folk and baroque. I wasn’t expecting that so many of my recent songs would have a Country feel to them. Oh well … I blame Hank.

 IT TAKES A WHILE

It takes a while to think some things over

It takes a while to see some things through
But then you know the world won’t stop turning
When you stand up and say ‘I love you.’

 

It takes a while to cross the wide ocean
It takes a while to sail every sea
But then you know even when your heart’s broken
How beautiful this world can be

 

It takes a while when you live by a river
To see every season come call
It takes a while for some hearts to open
Until it takes no time at all

 

It takes a while to write a love letter
It takes a while to say some things right
But then you know how feelings lie buried
And true love brings all things to light

 

It takes a while for roses to blossom
It takes a while for loved ones to mourn
But then you know it’s only in dying
That we are forever reborn

 

It takes a while when you live by a river
To see every season come call
It takes a while for some hearts to open
Until it takes no time at all

 

© 2015 Dale Petley (Oklahoma City)

IN MY HOME

HAPPY CANADA DAY to friends and family in the “true north strong and free.” While growing up in Moncton we called it Dominion Day, mindful of how our fellow New Brunswicker, Sir Samuel Leonard Tilley, suggested calling Canada a dominion based on Psalm 72:8, "He shall have dominion also from sea to sea, and from the river unto the ends of the earth." Anyway, that’s our story and we’re sticking to it. By the way, if you’re from Moncton and still call it Dominion Day you probably remember The Bunkhouse Boys, The Bore View Restaurant, Moncton Family Outfitters, Bunny’s General Store, the days when we referred to places as Léger's Corner, Georgetown, and Newton Heights, when Cathédrale Notre-Dame de l'Assomption was the city’s tallest building, and when the subway overpass on Main Street was resplendent in glorious pink. Like the song says: “If home is where the heart is I’ve never been away.”

 I wrote this song a few weeks ago.

 

IN MY HOME

 In my home close to the ocean

There’s a river running by
And the memories of a lifetime
Are the ones that will not die
I know I can’t get lost there
No matter where I roam
For when I am in that city
I’ve already found my way back home

Hear the bells of old St. George’s
Calling everyone to prayer
It’s a Feast Day or a funeral
There is incense in the air
I see people taking pictures
As the tide comes roaring in
And if I try to explain it
I don’t know where I would begin

I took a walk down by the river

Saw the ghost of Molly Kool
She was Captain of her vessel
We never learned of her in school
I wandered back to Main Street
Where I watched the setting sun
And as I heard the sound of music
I knew the night had just begun

When I sing a hymn at midnight

That the angels joy to hear
God comfort me with apples
And the knowledge that you’re near
The busy streets grow quiet
I hear nighthawks in the sky
As I fall asleep I’m smiling
And love is the reason why

 © 2015 Dale Petley (Oklahoma City)

CIMARRON RIVER

I hope everyone has a Happy Fathers Day.

I had wanted to write an Oklahoma song since 2007, the Centennial year of Statehood. Only recently did this song come along as part of my ‘Life by Rivers’ collection.  I say it “came along” because that’s the way it happens with the songs I write. It starts with a phrase or an image and the suggestion of a tune and suddenly the lyrics just come tumbling out. I know I’m composing but it all seems more like a gift given and received. I’m grateful. 

 

This one’s for Diana.

 

CIMARRON RIVER

There’s a place that they call Oklahoma

She has been a good friend to me
I made my home where the buffalo roam
In a land where they live to be free

You can see it painted deep in their faces

It’s a love passed from father to son
Like the old man who cried just before he died
And told me what he wanted done

 Chorus:

Bury me by the Cimarron River
Lay me down near my home in the Plains
Where the eagle soars high in a clear blue sky
And wildflowers wait for the rain

Redbuds blossom in springtime

Cool breezes blow in the fall
Come autumn nights under stadium lights
We cheer for our team one and all

Red brothers and sisters before us

Were the ones to give this land its name
And throughout the years and a Trail of Tears
Had the grace and the grit to remain

 Chorus:

Bury me by the Cimarron River…

Folks smile here the first time they meet you

They assume that you’re already friends
They know hard times come to everyone
And they’ll stand by your side to the end

So if you like the wide open spaces

Then this is the place you should be
But lift up your head, it’s like Woody said:
“This land was made for you and me”

 Chorus:

Bury me by the Cimarron River…

© 2015 Dale Petley (Oklahoma City)

PRIMUM NON NOCERE

I have been blessed to have had two Christian Godfathers. The first (and official) one was a barber by trade. The second (unofficial) one did all the training necessary to become a psychiatrist before deciding that his true calling was to be a General Practitioner or as he likes to put it, a family doctor. I couldn’t help thinking how much he looked the part one wintery evening when he showed up years ago at our home wearing his stethoscope around his neck and carrying his little black doctor’s bag. He was making a house call to see my ailing grandmother. If you’re old enough to remember house calls then you might also recall milk delivery and how blueberries used to taste ... but I digress.

My first paying job was in a doctor’s office. I was put in charge of organizing files. Thinking back on it all I now realize my ‘job’ really amounted to a make-work project designed to keep me out of trouble during the relative idleness of summer. Be that as it may I learned many valuable lessons during those months. I came to understand the vital importance of discretion and confidentiality. Mostly though, I was blessed by observing the kindness, care, and compassion with which this beloved physician treated his patients.

Over the years I have found that illness can be a great teacher as well as a powerful catalyst for change. It bursts the bubble of complacency and shatters the illusion of self-sufficiency. It reminds us of our common humanity and shows us how we are all fragile vessels. It can also recall us to the fact that we are a lot less in control than we like to think we are, and that rather than succumbing to the ultimately slavish insistence of being the Captain of our own ship and the Director of our own play, true freedom may be found in surrender to one greater than our small self; one who can restore us to health and sanity.

One of my favorite sayings is ‘Primum non nocere’ – ‘First, do no harm.’ This sums up precisely the sort of conservatism I can get behind for it insists, as Yogi Berra might say, that we avoid improving things worse. And it means more than that. It reminds us that people are not merely problems to be fixed or puzzles to be solved but that their well being is our highest priority.  I have failed woefully over the years in living up to this standard, and yet, I continue in my aspiration to do so. I cannot imagine a better way of celebrating the precious gift of life. It is the way of Asclepius, Hippocrates, Saint Luke the Physician, and my Godfather, a family doctor.

FAITH

We are in the Season of Easter. For those unfamiliar with church festivals Easter is a lot like Christmas, only different. Christmas and Easter are the two major feasts when those who call themselves Christians actually attend church. These are followed by Mothers’ Day and any Sunday when the children’s choir sings.

Christmas celebrates the birth of Jesus and Easter celebrates his resurrection, and both events are welcomed by women named Mary who are full of grace. Christmas and Easter alike call us to faith and invite us to see as united what we naturally think of as being separate and divided: shepherds and sheep, masters and servants, Logos/Word and speechless infant, boundlessness and embodiment, eternity and time, the one and the many, the universal and the particular, creator and creation, divinity and humanity, God and man.